


winter roses

by valyrias



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-02
Updated: 2014-08-02
Packaged: 2018-02-11 10:21:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2064411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valyrias/pseuds/valyrias
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At the end is a note of a wedding to take place, between Aegon Targaryen and—Sansa stops, blinks, at the mention of Margaery Tyrell's name instead of the late Arianne Martell. Sansa Stark remembers Margaery and her kindness in the capitol, but Margaery Tyrell is only a name on paper to Alayne Arryn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	winter roses

**Author's Note:**

> [basorexia: an overwhelming desire to kiss.]

Daenerys Targaryen conquers King's Landing in a terrifying show of fire and blood, and yet the only ones the dragons burn are those who willingly stay behind. Alayne is not surprised to read that Cersei Lannister's scorched body, and that of the son she'd poisoned, had had to be pried away from the Iron Throne so that the Dragon Queen could sit it and have her nephew be her right hand.

Tyrion Lannister is made Hand of the King once more, and Sansa blinks at the mention of her husband. Her eyes linger on his name but for a few moments, and then Alayne is back to scanning the report issued throughout the Seven Kingdoms.

At the end is a note of a wedding to take place, between Aegon Targaryen and—Sansa stops, blinks, at the mention of Margaery Tyrell's name instead of the late Arianne Martell. Sansa Stark remembers Margaery and her kindness in the capitol, but Margaery is only a name on paper to Alayne Arryn.

She folds the paper neatly and tells her husband that night, as he's brushing out her black hair. He laughs at her news and shakes his head. "Stannis still holds the North," he says. "Perhaps we should wait and see if the Dragon Queen will handle him for us. And then, we can reclaim Winterfell."

He presses a gentle kiss to her neck. After months of practice, she no longer flinches under his touch—the memories of Joffrey will never truly go away, but she's hopeful that they will fade enough for her to do her wifely duty. Harry is the type of man she'd dreamed she would one day marry—handsome, gentlemanly, a true knight. But there are no true knights, and she suspects he's only so patient with her because he has the kitchen maids to distract him.

"But in the meantime, we shall attend His Grace's wedding," he says with a laugh. "Let's hope he does a better job of bedding this Tyrell girl than the others, hm? Goodnight, sweetling."

"Goodnight, sweetling," Alayne replies, despite it being her (dead) father’s term, and a voice in the back of her head whispers  _I am only a little bird, repeating the words they taught me._

* * *

The dragon skulls are larger than anything Alayne has ever seen, and the tapestries they hang from the walls remind her of blood. No one in court is mourning for Cersei Lannister and her bastard children.

Alayne and Harry Arryn arrive quietly, filling in the gaps of the throne room along with other highborn, but soon a man Sansa recognizes as Ser Barristan Selmy appears before them. He bows low and gives Alayne a studying glance as he says, "Her Grace would like to speak to the both of you."

He leads them, back still straight despite a small limp in his walk, to the Dragon Queen herself. She is nothing fearsome, even on the Iron Throne, upon first look—she is shorter than Alayne, and paler, but there's something hard in her purple eyes that makes Alayne bite the inside of her cheek.

She smiles, but the hardness in her eyes does not disappear. "Lord Arryn."

Harry drops to one knee at the base of the Throne. "Your Grace. May I present my wife, Alayne."

He stands up and steps back, and Alayne steps forward to fill his role. She drops into a deep curtsy and, as she rises, clasps her hands in front of her— _no, that is not Alayne_. She drops her hands and smiles. "We are most humbled to be here, Your Grace, to celebrate this joyous day. Please know that all the Vale hopes for peace and happiness for all the Seven Kingdoms, and that we wish you a long and prosperous reign."

The Dragon Queen studies her. "I did not know. What I _do_ know is that the Vale was the first of the kingdoms to rise up and aid in the Usurper's deposing my father. Am I meant to forgive and forget such betrayal?"

Alayne slips her hand around Harry's arm, and he rests his hand on top of hers. "Jon Arryn was a traitor," she says, the familiar, bitter word falling out of her mouth like honey. "He met a just end after some years as Hand, and his heir died soon after. My husband, while related to the late lord, has no inclination to follow his traitorous footsteps. We are devoted to you and yours, Your Grace."

Harry's fingers tighten over hers, and she tries to consider it an act of gratitude rather than anything else—Harry is not her father. Queen Daenerys's lips pull up slightly, revealing a child's small pearly teeth. "It seems all the Seven Kingdoms suddenly share your sentiment, Lady Arryn," she says. "I hope your loyalty will remain as steadfast as those who claim to be the most loyal to me."

The words are a dismissal, so after another deep curtsy, Alayne gently steers her husband back into the mingling court. The bells begin to ring soon, and the court starts the procession to Baelor's Sept. The day is bright and cloudless, just as it'd been on Joffrey's wedding day, but the only difference is the snow on the ground and the bitter chill in the air. Sansa huddles deeper into her furs and tries to keep her nose warm, hoping that this day ends better than Margaery’s last wedding.

Soon, they are all in the building, and the ceremony begins. Aegon Targaryen climbs the steps of Baelor to stand beside the High Septon. Sansa blinks, seeing Joffrey for a moment instead of the silver-haired, beautiful Aegon, but Harry is pulling her to their row and Alayne has never been to a royal wedding before.

Margaery comes to him a Tyrell, her demure gown a brilliant emerald green with yellow-and-white roses embroidered across the entire dress. A hundred citrines are sewn into a sheer train that makes the woman glitter. Alayne looks straight ahead as she passes their row, but once she's gone, she focuses her gaze on the back of Margaery's head.

Margaery turns her head after climbing the steps, her eyes flicking out over the crowds, and she can swear that Margaery's eyes land on her. Alayne's breath catches in her throat, for fear of recognition sparking in the princess-to-be's eyes, but she doesn't blink. (Alayne didn't know Margaery, never  _would_  know Margaery, so there would be no reason to react.)

Margaery blinks once and turns back to Aegon with the same smile she'd once given Joffrey. Sansa's not sure whether to be grateful or disappointed.

* * *

"Be careful," Alayne tells her husband a week later, who gives her a crooked smile in return. Thousands of men are around them, preparing for war with Stannis Baratheon, who still has not acknowledged Daenerys's claim to the throne.

"When am I not?" He strokes a finger down her face, and she prides herself on not flinching away from him. _He's always been gentle to me,_ she thinks, and smiles when he leans down to whisper in her ear. "And perhaps, I shall come back to Sansa Stark instead of Alayne."

Alayne lowers her gaze. "Make sure they don't harm the Stark girl." She longs to say  _my sister_ , but Alayne Arryn has no sisters. Harry nods and, at a faint call from a commander, kicks his horse forward. Alayne steps into the line of women waiting to see the men off on _another_ war and watches her husband until he is a mere speck on the horizon. 

When she returns to her room, there is a note for _Lady Sansa Arryn_  on her pillow, in Margaery's own hand.

* * *

When she steps into Margaery’s private rooms, it’s as if she’s a child again. Winter roses bloom on the windowsill, blue and sweet-smelling, and Margaery has one in her hair as she sews a red-and-black rose, her new personal sigil. Alayne stops at the open doorway, her hand hovering over the doorframe but not quite knocking. Margaery’s note is clutched tight in her other hand, and there’s a strange sensation in her stomach. The guards had let her into the Crown Princess's chambers without her needing to show her letter—apparently, Margaery has been waiting for her.

Margaery looks up at last, and a smile spreads over her face just as widely as those days in the garden. “Lady Arryn,” she greets, setting her needlework aside and standing up. Her ladies keep quiet, but Alayne can almost hear their ears straining for words.

Alayne holds up Margaery’s note as she draws closer, blank side facing them. “I’m afraid your maid delivered to the wrong woman, my lady,” she says.

“Ladies, leave us,” Margaery commands with a smile. They flutter about and away. When Margaery shuts the door behind them, Alayne swallows at the fact that they are alone. Margaery draws her hands in hers and sits down on the bed, bringing her down with her.

“Sansa, you needs not lie to me,” Margaery says, a gentle frown appearing on her face as she touches a loose strand of black hair. “What happened to your lovely hair? Where have you been all this time? There were rumors, of course, of you being in Oldtown and a captive of Pyke’s and even raising an army to topple Bolton in the Free Cities, but no one heard any true news.” She laughs, a bright sound that startles Sansa. “I can’t believe you’ve been in the Vale all this time! And married to a great lord, no less.”

Sansa stares at her, and just like that, her walls crumble, just as they always did around Margaery. “Please don’t tell anyone.”

Margaery’s smile is slow and reminds Sansa of her grandmother. “Never. It’ll be our secret.” She stands up and grabs Sansa’s hands again with a laugh. “Oh, Sansa, I’ve missed you! It’s so good to see you again—you must tell me everything that’s been going on in the Vale.”

Sansa sits in one of the chairs and forces a smile as Margaery goes to the windowsill and returns with a winter rose in hand. Margaery gives it to her with a sweet smile, an air of complete ease encompassing her as Sansa answers her questions.

Sansa’s missed this, chatting with Margaery, but—she looks over the winter rose in her hand and looks up to see Margaery  _beaming_  at her; once again, she is caught off guard.

 _My claim no longer benefits the Tyrells_ , she thinks as Margaery sits back down.  _Why is she still trying to befriend me?_

“I once asked if we could be sisters,” Margaery notes, picking up her sewing but not looking at it. Her eyes are focused on Sansa, bright and golden, and Sansa looks away, her hands and the winter rose pressed to her stomach. “I should hope that your answer remains the same.”

Sansa manages to look up, ignoring how her mouth goes dry when she looks at Margaery. “It is,” she whispers. The smile that lights up Margaery’s face makes Sansa wonder if attending the wedding wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

* * *

When a hand rests on her arm and jerks her out of her dream, Sansa opens her eyes with memories of a shadowy man sitting heavily on her bed. Her hand rushes out, seeking to grab an imaginary dagger, but then her eyes adjust in the light and she calms down when she sees it’s Margaery. Margaery’s fingertips press against her lips, keeping her quiet. “Did I frighten you?” Margaery whispers, concern in her golden eyes.

Sometimes Sansa’s caught between wondering if Margaery truly cares or if she’s just playing the game, just as she’d been so many years ago.

Sansa shakes her head and tries hard not to notice how soft Margaery’s fingertips are on her lips. Margaery smiles and flops down on the bed, scooting closer to Sansa and pressing her chilled toes against Sansa’s legs. “My room was cold,” Margaery whispers, as if disclosing a secret. “I thought having a bedmate might make it warmer.”

Sansa smiles, wondering where her perpetual entourage from her days in King's Landing had gone, and turns her face toward Margaery. Their faces are inches away, and Sansa can see the chill in the princess's cheeks. The winter was still fresh, only two years old; there would be much worse in the years to come before they could ever dream of spring. "Understandable, my lady," Sansa says. She's never called her Margaery, at least not since she was Sansa Stark.

Margaery gives her a sweet, secret smile that Sansa tucks into the corners of her heart. When she entwines her fingers with Sansa’s, her fingers are cold. The winter’s seemed to seep into the very stone of the Red Keep, but Sansa hardly feels it. Sansa brings Margaery’s fingers up and rubs her slender hand between hers, until she knows that the cold has left her friend’s bones.

When she looks up, Margaery’s smile is gone, and her golden-brown eyes are thoughtful. Her smile returns immediately, and she taps a finger against Sansa’s lips. The warmth startles her, and Margaery laughs quietly. “I feel warmer already,” she says, but there’s no teasing in her words. Sansa finds it hard to swallow, so she smiles instead.

* * *

The ravens that come to King’s Landing are few and far between, and Sansa receives no letter from Harry. She busies herself with collecting overheard conversations and sending the most intriguing ones north. No one notices the quiet, demure, skittish Lady Arryn, and it works to her advantage.

When she does receive a letter from her husband, it’s full of surprising news. “Stannis Baratheon is defeated,” she tells Margaery, who’s chewing absently on her thumbnail as she walks around the room. “But the Queen says that they are still needed in the North. She’s taking her armies… to the Wall.”

Margaery furrows her brow and returns to her embroidery. There’s not much else to do, not when the snows are calf-deep outside and all the fires are burning full-time. “What? What’s to fight on the Wall? Wildlings?”

“The Night’s Watch has always been able to handle wildlings before,” Sansa replies, folding her husband’s letter neatly. “I’m sure we’ll find out soon enough.”

* * *

Sansa wakes up from a nightmare, the first since coming to King’s Landing. She has to reassure herself that Petyr Baelish is dead before she allows herself to sit up. Margaery stirs and opens her eyes at the movement. When she sits up, her hand seeks out and wraps around Sansa’s. “What’s wrong, Sansa?”

“Nothing,” Sansa whispers. If Harry had been in her place, she would’ve shrunk away and told her husband to return to sleep; with Margaery, she’s almost comforted by her concern. Margaery’s fingers are soft as rose petals as she brushes them underneath her chin and tilts Sansa’s head toward her.

Her frown makes her forehead crinkle, and in the dark she smells sweeter than winter roses. “Sisters don’t lie to each other,” she admonishes, her voice gentle. Sansa studies her face in the moonlight, silent, (all memories of Petyr Baelish pushed away again)—and she thinks, _she’s so beautiful_.

She wonders what it would feel like, to tip Margaery’s head back and kiss her as deeply as Harry had kissed her on their wedding night, to tangle her hands in those soft brown curls and make Margaery sigh her name. She yearns for it, almost; she itches for Margaery’s touch more than she desires spring, and part of her is shocked at her desire. Another part remembers the words _pretty girls_ from a time long ago, back when she was still Sansa Stark and Margaery had given her a red-tipped yellow rose instead of a winter one.

But she is a married woman of six-and-ten now, and Margaery’s a princess. Sansa tucks those thoughts away as neatly as she tucks away those of Petyr Baelish and smiles. “It was just a nightmare. Nothing to be worried about.”

Margaery waits, but when Sansa says nothing else, she lays down on the bed, her moonlit hair forming a dark halo around her head. Sansa lies down as well, and she plays with Margaery’s hair ( _her hair’s soft as her hands_ , she thinks) until she falls asleep. When Sansa’s sure her bedmate is asleep, she gently rests a finger on Margaery’s parted lips. They’re just as soft as the rest of Margaery, and Sansa’s not sure what else she expected.

She withdraws her hand and turns over, facing the windowsill full of winter roses. The sweetness of their smell lulls her to sleep.

* * *

Margaery announces her pregnancy to the court in the most mundane way possible. She stops a serving girl and says, “Please bring me as many blueberry tarts as you can. I’ve found that I have an insatiable craving for them lately.”

The room had gone silent when Margaery had stood up to get the servant’s attention. When Margaery sits down, the buzz picks up again, but Sansa can detect traces of conversations with far different topics. Tyrion Lannister downs his drink from his place at Margaery’s left hand side, then pushes away from the table. Sansa expects him to take the shortest route to return to the rebuilt Tower of the Hand, but he surprises her when he chooses to waddle past her instead. For a moment, she thinks he'll not notice her, but instead of continuing on his way, Lord Tyrion stops, turning around.

His mismatched eyes glitter with something unfamiliar as he bows to her. “Lady Arryn,” he greets, and Alayne smiles politely at him.

“My lord Hand. I trust you are having a pleasant evening?”

“Of course, my lady.” He rises and pulls at his surcoat before meeting her eyes. “I was reading through the laws last night, and I stumbled upon a law enacted in the pretender Tommen Waters’s reign. It repudiated my claims to Casterly Rock and annulled my marriage to Lady Sansa Stark. Fortunately, our queen saw fit to restore me to my birthright, but in the absence of a wife, I am, again, a bachelor. I thought you would be most interested in my findings.”

Alayne blinks, one hand dropping to her side as she tries to think of what to say. Margaery subtly grabs her hand and dangles it between their two chairs. Alayne focuses away from Margaery’s warmth and looks Tyrion Lannister in the eyes for the first time in two years. “I...” she hesistates, caught off guard. At last she finds her voice. “I thank you, my lord,” she says, dipping her head. Tyrion lowers his, then turns away and continues on his exit.

When Sansa retires to Margaery’s chambers, she clasps her hands to her stomach and starts pacing the room. “Who else knows?”

“Anyone who remembers you from court, I’d imagine,” Margaery replies.

Sansa flattens her hands again and gives her a look. “But does the Queen know?”

Margaery smiles in return, beckoning for Sansa to sit across from her. When she does, Margaery sets aside her embroidery and takes Sansa’s hands in hers. “I don’t know why Ser Barristan would not tell her; even if she doesn’t know, what harm can she do to you? The girl Stannis was harboring was a pretender, and the North would not accept the execution of the last Stark if every Northerner was granted a place among the gods.”

She leans forward, raising a hand to curl a strand of hair around her finger. Sansa’s gaze drops to Margaery’s lips, almost unconsciously, and she looks away, semi-embarrassed. A lady shouldn’t think such thoughts, after all. “We could start with your hair,” Margaery suggests, something sly in her tone that makes Sansa think that Margaery hadn’t missed her look after all. “That’s one of the defining parts of Sansa Stark.”

“I know,” Sansa says, a trace of bitterness in her tone. But at Margaery’s insistence, she throws the bottle of black dye out. Little by little, the black begins to leech out, until her hair is a glossy Tully red again.

When she finally sees her own (admittedly changed) face in the mirror instead of Alayne Arryn’s, a strange sense of relief fills her. Margaery kisses her cheek when she sees her that night, and Sansa tells herself that she meant nothing by it. It helps her sleep during nights when she would otherwise be focusing on the feel of Margaery’s lips against her skin.

* * *

Sansa and Margaery wait in front of the city gates, staring out into the white wasteland that Westeros has become. One of Margaery’s hands is entwined with Sansa’s, and the other cradles her wide belly hidden underneath piles of furs. The letter tucked inside Sansa’s furs claim of the army’s arrival at King's Landing any day now, but two days have passed with no news.

Margaery leans toward Sansa, squinting to make out any new shapes in the snow. “Do you think they’ll come today?” she asks. She’s beautiful, her cheeks tinged pink and her lips glistening red, and Sansa feels a now-familiar yearning to close the distance and taste her—just _once_ —but Sansa only smiles and adjusts Margaery’s heavy cloak.

“I think they will,” she replies. A few minutes after her words, they hear the unmistakable howl of a wolf—Margaery’s grip on her hand tightens, even if she doesn’t mention her fear, and the guards around them tense up.

Sansa only smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. i promised myself i'd never write asoiaf fanfic and i broke that promise today  
> 2\. don't look at me  
> 3\. but while we're on the topic can we talk about how there's no open collection(s) of amazing sansaery fics that i know of  
> 4\. if there are please direct me to some  
> 5\. thank


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